


Classical Mechanics

by fourfreedoms



Series: Gravitational Influence [3]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Mutual Masturbation, h/c, jerkoff wins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-13 16:13:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17491178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fourfreedoms/pseuds/fourfreedoms
Summary: All hail the jerkoff win. Set during the Red Wings series in 2013.An outtake from Orbital Resonance.





	Classical Mechanics

**Author's Note:**

> hatrickane prompted me to write mutual masturbation for 1988, and somehow I ended up here. This is set during the playoffs that we glossed over at the end there. Lemme tell you, writing this got me deep in my feels. 
> 
> In any event, I accidentally fudged up some of the details from that series because it has been SO LONG, but you guys will just have to deal ahahaha. Creative license and all that.

“That’s it, we’re bringing it back,” Patrick calls out, bursting into Jonny’s apartment with enough force that the door bangs against the wall. 

“What?” Jonny blinks at him from his position on the couch, feeling a little overwhelmed, and a lot disgusted with himself over his play at the Joe tonight. 

Patrick’s already shrugging out of his t-shirt, acting like it’s totally normal to bust into people’s homes and start stripping. 

“Hello, anyone home?” Patrick mocks, possibly also a little frustrated with Jonny’s play. “Jerkoff wins.” 

Jonny drops his head against the backrest of his couch and groans, not in the mood for Patrick’s antics right now, and certainly not in the mood to just whip his cock out and go to town. “Fucking hell. Why did I ever give you a key?” 

Patrick flings his shirt aside and starts in on toeing off his shoes and working his fly down, unconcerned with Jonny’s reluctance. “Because it’s normal to give your boyfriend a key to your place,” he says, and then pauses, like he just heard the words out of his own mouth. They’ve never actually stated it out loud, even though that’s unquestionably what Patrick is. “Huh, boyfriend,” he says again rolling it around in his mouth like he’s trying to get used to it. “Yeah, I like it.” 

Jonny feels the knot of misery in his chest start to tug free a little bit. “You don’t want a fancy term for it, big daddy Kane?” Jonny can’t help teasing. “Lover? Darling? Paramour?” 

Patrick, divested of all his clothes but his boxers and socks, plunks himself down in Jonny’s lap like he has every right to be there. He catches Jonny’s jaw up in his hands and tilts him right into a kiss that feels as wholesome and grounding as a warm embrace or a heavy blanket on a cold night. Jonny didn’t even realize how much he needed it until he feels the tension starting to sap out of his spine.

Patrick gently tugs Jonny’s lower lip with his teeth and then pulls back. “Admirer, worshipper, follower,” he says softly, completing Jonny’s list. 

Something painful lances through Jonny on the knife-edge of those words. He’s never been good at taking compliments, and he thoroughly does not feel like he deserves it right now. 

Patrick must see it on his face. “What do you always tell me? Don’t let these nights eat at you? I can give you your own thoroughly annoying buck-up team speech if need be.” 

Jonny snorts and laughs. His buck-up team speeches are the bomb-ass. He’s no orator, but he’s seen Kaner leaping over the boards with abandon after one pretty regularly, so he must be doing something right. Patrick’s face remains serious though. Of course it does. It’s a big fucking deal, they’re one game away from Detroit eliminating them from the playoffs, which would truly be the shittiest cake-topper on the amazing season they’ve just had.

“Ugh, I know, I know, alright?” he lets out a deep sigh. “This one is just hard to shake off.” 

Patrick rocks his hips in a deliberate grind against Jonny’s cock that’s at odds with the sage look on his face. “C’mon, Jonny, take it out.” 

“This is the least interested in sex I’ve been since my concussion,” Jonny says even as he tightens his hands on Patrick’s hips. 

“This ain’t sex, this is for the team,” Patrick says firmly. “Ain’t no ‘I’ in team.” 

“Oh my god,” Jonny replies, burying his face against Patrick’s shoulder. 

“You know what you have to do,” Patrick says drawing out the last word, his voice gone irritatingly sing-song. 

“Alright, alright, fuck you, okay,” Jonny bitches, shoving Patrick back so that he can pull his dick out of his sweatpants. He’s irrationally already getting hard. Fucking Patrick Kane. 

“Yeah, that’s it,” Patrick says, eyes drawn to his fist on his dick. 

“Are you just going to sit on me and watch?” Jonny snarks. 

The way Patrick’s boxers are bunched hide what he’s packing pretty well, but when he rolls his hips downward Jonny feels the obscene weight of that beautifully thick dick pressing up under his balls. “Mmhm,” Patrick says, tongue between his teeth. “Just had to make sure you got with the program.” 

Jonny rolls his eyes, but the groan that slips out of his mouth is one of pleasure, not annoyance. 

It’s weird doing something like this again now that he knows what it’s like to have Patrick’s mouth on him and the firm weight of him thrusting between his thighs. When he goes to cup Patrick’s cock like he ordinarily would when they fool around, Patrick pushes his hand away. 

“Un-unh, that’s not how this works, buddy,” Patrick remonstrates him, eyes gone hooded as he watches Jonny’s fist moving up and down his shaft. “You know the rules.” 

“There are no rules,” Jonny protests, even as he slumps down further on the couch to give himself a little more room to work with. “This is just your superstitious bullshit.” 

“Well,” Patrick says with that devil may care grin on his face. “It was also an excuse to get you like this.” 

Jonny presses his lips together, trying to exercise restraint. He doesn’t need Patrick to know how much that gets him where he lives. “Hey. Hold up your end of the bargain, eh?” he says gruffly. 

Patrick smirks and finally takes his own cock in hand and they fall easily into the familiar rhythm, arms working between them, and him keeping a firm lid on any sounds he wants to make it. Except he doesn’t have to. He doesn’t have to pretend he isn’t looking as Patrick thrusts into his own hand, abs working and thighs gone taut where he’s straddling Jonny’s lap. He doesn’t have to avoid Patrick’s eyes or try to think his way around what it really is they’re doing. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, palm speeding up on his cock. 

Patrick’s half-lidded baby blues are intent on his face in a way that Jonny probably would’ve found off-putting from anybody else, but now serves to remind him how much he’s come to depend on Patrick’s kisses, the burn of his stubble and the freedom to tug at the curls at the nape of his neck whenever he wants. 

“Shit,” Patrick replies, that familiar hitch in his breathing that Jonny’s memorized for life signalling that he’s close. 

Jonny’s lids flutter, overwhelmed in a different kind of way this time. 

Patrick comes first, spilling all over Jonny’s shirt, although it’s not because Jonny’s trying to outlast him like usual. He’s further along that he would’ve thought if you’d asked him what he’d be doing late at night after a bitter flight back from Detroit, but he’s still gonna have to work for this one. He wants Patrick’s hands on him, but he just sits back on Jonny’s knees, watching him, waiting for him to get there. Jonny wants it so thoroughly he can almost feel the press of Patrick’s palms from imagining it. 

“Oh god,” Jonny breathes. 

“That’s it,” Patrick says, voice catching the same timber it gets when he’s taking Jonny apart on his cock, and for one brief moment, through all the playoff angst and desperation and exhaustion that tells him it isn’t a good idea right now, he wants that fiercely—Patrick pounding him open, tongue fucking into his mouth in that deliberate and dirty parody of his own hips between Jonny’s thighs. 

“I’ll give it to you, baby,” Patrick tells him, lips hovering bare inches away from Jonny’s, and Jonny realizes he must have said it out loud. “If that’s what you need.” 

And that’s it, Jonny’s done. He pushes the balls of his feet into the floor, quads going tight under Patrick’s weight as he helplessly thrusts up one final time into his hand, shooting all over Patrick’s boxers and somehow still hard cock. Nobody’s being careful tonight. 

“I love you,” he murmurs inanely and he’d be mortified if it were anyone else, undone from a simple orgasm and professing his undying love on a couch, covered in Patrick’s come. It’s not the first time he’s unearthed what it is exactly that Patrick means to him and brought it into the light of the day, but it’s new enough that it still feels raw. 

Patrick’s on him before he can take another breath, kissing him long and hard and deep like he can’t not. When he finally pulls back his cheeks have gone all pink, like he’s not too far from getting aroused again, but he merely smiles and brushes their noses together. 

“We’re gonna be great, Jonny,” he says. 

For a moment he can’t remember what Patrick means, caught up as he is. Ah, right, the jerkoff wins. And now he’s groaning in annoyance. 

“If you say so,” he grumbles, even as he wraps his arms around Patrick and tugs him in close. 

*

“Oh, oh, hey, what was that?” Patrick says as they stomp back in the dressing room at the UC, having seized victory from the jaws of defeat. “Did we win?” 

Jonny rolls his eyes. “Imma let you have your superstition, but you goddamn well know that has nothing to do with it.” 

“What are you two old wives chattering about?” Sharpy asks. 

Oh great, now Patrick’s got bloodhound Sharpy on the scent. Jonny glares at him meaningfully, but it only seems to delight him. 

“Just a bet between Jonny and me,” Patrick replies with a shit-eating grin. “And lemme tell you, I always win.”


End file.
